


Honey and Salt

by nlans



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-14 21:36:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14777661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nlans/pseuds/nlans
Summary: As he faces a crossroads in his relationship with King Consort Aedan Cousland, Zevran Arainai finds himself at Skyhold, helping an old friend with a delicate matter.An Inquisition-era Zevran short story. Updates Mondays and Thursdays.





	1. Chapter 1

_Denerim, 9:31 Dragon_

Aedan Cousland was not a handsome man, at least not traditionally speaking. His black hair stuck out at odd angles, his nose had been broken more than once even before the Blight, and the stubble on his jaw grew in patches that would never meet in a proper beard. It was his bright hazel eyes that drew people to him, Zevran had decided—or perhaps the way they crinkled when he smiled.

That smile could make someone feel as if they were the only person in the room. The only person in the world.

Aedan was smiling that smile at Zevran right now, holding out his arms for inspection. “So? What do you think?”

He turned around slowly, letting Zevran examine every inch of him. The close-fitting trousers and high leather boots somehow made his long legs look even longer. Leliana had helped Aedan shave off his scruff and done something to his hair that made him look dashingly disheveled, rather than a mess. The elegant doublet in Warden blue and silver practically glowed against Aedan’s tanned skin. The garment was cut to emphasize the Warden’s broad shoulders. Zevran couldn’t help imagining himself peeling the fabric from those shoulders, kissing his way down Aedan’s muscular frame as he unfastened its buttons.

“The boots are clearly not Antivan leather,” Zevran said with a slight tutting noise. “But I suppose they will have to do.” He paused. “The rest of it is … very fine. More than fine. You are magnificent, my Warden.”

Aedan clearly heard the wistfulness in Zevran’s tone. His cheerful expression dissolved, replaced with a mix of exasperation and resignation. “Zev. This changes nothing between us. You know that.”

_You are about to marry a Queen, my Warden. You will wear a crown for the rest of your life, and all eyes will look to you as you chart your nation’s future. Can you truly believe nothing will change?_

But he didn’t say that to Aedan. “I am relieved to hear it,” he replied instead.

Aedan seemed to sense his unease nonetheless. “It was the only way for everything to come out right, Zev. Alistair—I love him like a brother but he’d be a terrible King. And Anora’s a good Queen, but her only claim is by marriage. Without me at her side the bannorn would stop at nothing to tear her down. Ferelden needs stability.”

That was all true, if seen from a certain angle. But Zev also knew that his lover was a smart and ambitious man, one born and raised in the world of noble politics. He had orchestrated this marriage carefully—right down to choosing an enraged Alistair to fight Loghain at the Landsmeet, neatly eliminating his future father-in-law without alienating his bride. The truth was that Aedan Cousland was wearing this finery right now because he wanted to be King.

And he had not breathed a word of it to Zevran until the Landsmeet was done and the engagement announced.

“All this is just for show. I love _you_ ,” Aedan continued stubbornly, crossing his arms. He winced suddenly and released his arms by his side. “Maker, this jacket is tight.”

“Oh, indeed? I look forward to removing it later.”

Zevran made the quip almost by instinct, retreating into flirtation because he could not find other words. But when Aedan flinched, Zevran realized his mistake. _The wedding night._ Anora would be the one removing that jacket.

Zevran was not jealous, not exactly. He never had any expectation that he would be his bedmates’ only lover, even with Rinna, and he’d all but begged Aedan to bed Morrigan when the witch proposed her bargain. He did not mind the prospect of sneaking around, either—he had no wish to be a public part of a King Consort’s life. But when he pictured Aedan at Anora’s side, hailed as Ferelden’s Hero and its King, Zevran had the strangest feeling of him slipping away.

Suddenly Aedan was kissing him, his mouth hard against Zevran’s, his strong arms pulling him close. “We’ll go to Amaranthine soon,” he murmured. “Then it will just be us. I swear it.” He pulled away and cupped Zev’s face in one hand. “I’ll move back to my own chambers tomorrow night. Promise me you’ll be there.”

That, at least, was easy enough to answer. “ _Si, mi amor._ I would not miss it _,_ ” Zevran replied softly. “But I do hope you know the types of gifts a King is expected to bestow upon his lover.” That, he said with something like his usual insolent charm.

Aedan chuckled and reached for his neck. He unfastened the top button of his doublet and folded the fabric over, just far enough to show Zevran the glitter of metal and emerald there, the earring that he had pinned to the inside of his collar.

“I’ll get you something that puts even my Antivan earring to shame,” he said with a cheerful wink.  

And then he was gone, leaving Zevran alone in the Consort’s chambers.

Zevran smiled at the memory of that glittering earring lying close against Aedan’s skin. He had never been one to resent things that could not be, and he did not intend to start now. He loved the King Consort, the Commander of the Grey, the Hero of Ferelden— even though he knew that lofty list of titles would soon occupy the bulk of Aedan Cousland’s life.

Whatever Aedan had left for him would be enough. It would have to be.

 

* * *

 

_Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon_

In both his old life as an assassin and in his new life at Aedan’s side, Zevran had visited a fairly large number of castles. And yet, as the caravan rounded a bend in the road and Skyhold came into view, he still found himself drawing a deep, impressed breath. The Crows would have killed (literally, and in large numbers) for such a defensible stronghold, high in the mountains with few ways to approach. A handful of well-placed archers could decimate armies at such a place.

The caravan passed through Skyhold’s gates and entered a muddy courtyard, where the soldiers Zevran had accompanied began unloading their wagons with swift, military precision. Zevran dismounted his horse and stepped aside to stare at the bustling interior, at the soldiers and healers and merchants rushing about. There were even some finely-dressed Orlesians—diplomats, he assumed—climbing the stairs to a large central building. _That must be where the Inquisitor holds court._

Curious as he was about Ciara Lavellan, however, there was someone else Zevran wanted to see first—and when the flutter of a raven’s wings overhead caught his eye, he knew exactly where to find her.

*

Leliana waited a moment before acknowledging the soft footsteps behind her. “Welcome to Skyhold, Zevran Arainai.”

Zevran chuckled. “You remember my footsteps after all this time? I am honored, my dearest Leliana.”

“I saw you enter the courtyard. Not that I have been watching and waiting.” She turned then, a smile on her lips. “It is good to see you, my old friend.”

Years had passed since they last saw one another, and yet Zevran was still startled by the change in his old comrade. Her lovely face was half in shadows beneath her cowl, but he could see that her features were thinner, her laugh lines fewer than he would have wished for her. He wondered what she saw when she looked at him—if she noticed the strands of silver through his blonde hair, the new wrinkles around his mouth and eyes.

He swept her his most elaborate bow. “You must tell me how you do it, Sister Nightingale,” he said as he straightened. “How _do_ you manage to grow more beautiful with each passing year?” It was not an empty compliment. Leliana was harder than she had been during the Blight, her expression more secretive and less trusting, but she was no less beautiful for it.

She laughed and reached out her hands for his, clasping them in friendship. “I have missed your flattery, Zevran.”

Zevran squeezed her hands in his and pressed one quick kiss against the back of her right hand. “And I have missed everything about you, Leliana. Particularly your kind nature.”

To his surprise she flinched a bit at that. A sore spot, then—but he did not press her about the wound. “It was good of you to have your ambassador sneak me out of the Free Marches,” he said smoothly. “I even wore a disguise! A marvelous conclusion to my little adventure.”

The spymaster smiled. “I am pleased it amused you,” she said wryly. “I was very glad you accepted my invitation to Skyhold.”

He looked around the rookery with a raised eyebrow, his eyes taking in the ravens, the stacks of documents, the agents slipping around them on silent feet. It was a far cry from their ramshackle circle of tents during the Blight, but Leliana looked utterly natural here—a deadly woman surrounded by secrets. “How could I refuse? Your Inquisition has quite the reputation.”

“I am pleased to hear it.” Leliana looked around the room with him, following his eyes. “We have worked hard to build one.”

“And your Inquisitor! The stories I hear are most impressive.” He chuckled. “Though we, of all people, know how those tales can be exaggerated. And how much they leave out.”

“She is a capable leader. We were fortunate that the Mark fell to someone like her. Though I will confess, when we first sought an Inquisitor I had hoped it would be Aedan.” Leliana crossed to her desk and pulled out a parchment. “We have a letter from him if you would like to read it. Alas, he has still not solved the riddle of the Calling. But I expect you knew that already.”

Zevran felt his smile dissolve.

Leliana blinked at his expression. “Zevran?”

He swallowed, trying to push down the unexpected stab of loss that coursed through him. “I—I did not know he was searching for a cure to the Calling. We have not spoken in quite some time.”

Leliana’s jaw dropped. “I am sorry. I did not realize you had parted ways,” she said softly.

Zevran shook his head. “Nothing so dramatic as that. I—we—”

He paused, trying to think of how to explain how he had left things with Aedan—how Aedan had left things with him. But their separation had been a decade or more in the making, and a simple account of all that had passed seemed impossible.

“We have grown apart,” he said at last.

The words sounded trite and simplistic. Yet as he spoke them, it struck him that they were basically accurate. For some reason that realization made the loss stab all the more deeply.

That was too vague an explanation for a friend such as Leliana, however. “Aedan is a dedicated King. That dedication places a heavy burden on his time.” He shrugged, trying to keep his voice matter-of-fact. “Meanwhile, I have found that I quite enjoy killing the Crows’ Guildmasters. Few of whom are foolish enough to visit Denerim.”

He tried for his usual nonchalant grin, but when Leliana’s eyes sparkled with sympathy, he knew she had seen right through him. “It seems we have much to catch up on,” she said softly.

“Indeed, I suspect we do.” Zevran arched an eyebrow. “But first I must know: What task could the fearsome Inquisition possibly need from a humble assassin such as myself?” Leliana’s note had been cryptic, but he could read the request for a favor between the lines of her invitation to Skyhold.

“Had I needed a _humble_ assassin I would never have asked you to make the journey,” Leliana said wryly, sliding her arm through his. “Come with me. This is … a rather delicate matter.”


	2. Chapter 2

_ Denerim, 9:31 Dragon _

It was nearly one in the morning before Aedan returned from dinner with his Banns. Zevran allowed himself to doze a bit after eleven. He knew that these things could go on far into the night. He also knew that if it went poorly, Aedan would not want to talk, only to curl up in bed next to him and hold him, pushing away the day’s worries with the feel of his lover’s body wrapped within his.

But it had not gone poorly. The moment Aedan came through the room his mouth was on Zev’s, hot and enthusiastic, and his fingers were pushing down the fabric of his trousers, freeing Zev’s cock to his eager hand. Zevran arched in pleasure and moaned as fire coursed through him, feeling truly  _ alive  _ for the first time that day.

“So,” he said once they were finished, an amused chuckle in his voice. “I take it the bannorn proved agreeable?”

Aedan grinned at him. “Anora has been working on them for weeks, but I pushed them over the edge. They won’t contest Amaranthine and Vigil’s Keep. The Warden-Commander will be the Arl of Amaranthine in his own right.” He stretched out against the bedclothes, a very satisfied smile on his face. “The Grey Wardens have officially returned to Ferelden.”

“A King, an Arl,  _ and  _ the Warden-Commander. However will you remember all of your titles if you continue to accumulate them at this rate?” Zevran teased, tracing his fingers over the beloved planes of Aedan’s face. 

Aedan’s features went still. “Oh. Maker. I thought I told you.”

A cold lump settled in Zevran’s stomach. “Told me what?”

“I—it’s for Alistair. Not me. He’s going to be Warden-Commander and the legal Arl. It became a negotiating point with the Bannorn. I’m the heir to Highever unless Fergus has more children”—Aedan flinched at those words, the memory of his dead nephew still raw within his heart—“and the idea of me as the Arl of Amaranthine as well as King Consort proved too much for some of my father’s old rivals. It just wasn’t worth the battle.” He sighed. “Besides, Ferelden needs me in Denerim. Alistair will do fine.”

Zevran tried to look as if this news did not affect him. But he had not realized until this moment how desperately he had looked forward to Vigil’s Keep—to the promise of a place where he and Aedan would not face the full pressures of a royal title. In Denerim there were so many places Aedan went where Zevran could not follow, so many dinners and formal balls and state visits. So many nights that Zevran spent alone in Aedan’s chambers, waiting and wondering what time his lover would return.

_ Braska. A bit of boredom is a fair price for what you have _ , he scolded himself.  _ Do not add to his burden. That is not your part to play. _

He leaned down and kissed Aedan lightly. “So we are to spend our days here in Denerim in the lap of luxury? Alas, if only you had warned me of my terrible fate.”

Aedan laughed and wrapped his arms around Zev. “I hoped you’d feel that way.”

 

* * *

 

_Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon_

Zevran stared down at Skyhold’s main hall, watching petitioners and criminals presented before the Inquisitor from a small balcony high above the throng. At long last, after months of increasingly improbable tales, he got his first good look at Ciara Lavellan.

And it was a memorable one.

The Inquisitor was one of the most striking women Zevran had ever seen. Sitting on Skyhold’s throne she looked like a painting of an ancient elven queen, or perhaps even one of their goddesses. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in loose curls, framing a heart-shaped face with full lips and sky-blue eyes, a rare shade among elves. Her skin was tanned and lightly freckled, and her vallaslin curled elegantly around her cheekbones and between her brows, making her large eyes seem even larger. If one looked closely, it was possible to see small flaws in her features—her nose tilted a bit to the left, her smile was widest on the right. But she looked at everyone before her with an almost painful kindness in her expression, her gentle smile offering an unspoken promise that those before her would be understood, even if she could not pardon them.

_ Small wonder they call her the Herald of Andraste,  _ he thought as he caught his breath in something like awe.

At his side, Leliana chuckled. “You are not the first person to react this way to our Inquisitor,” she said wryly.

“I had assumed the portraits were idealized,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But it appears that they fell short.” 

“We attended a rather eventful ball in Orlais a month or so ago. Seven people asked for the Inquisitor’s hand before we left.” Leliana’s voice was light, but there was an edge to the observation.

Zevran arched an eyebrow. “Only seven?”

The spymaster’s mouth thinned. “We had more than twice as many inquires about whether she might be available as a mistress.”

“Ah.” Zevran sighed wearily. “I see that in Orlais, even the Inquisitor is still an elf.” 

Leliana nodded. “Though that is not what concerns me at the moment. She has two admirers who are closer to home.”

Zevran’s eyes scanned the crowd. “I can guess the first,” he said. “The blonde man in the corner. The one with the papers and the quill. He tries to pretend he is writing, but he cannot take his eyes from her.” He frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Do you know, he looks familiar?”

It came to him in a rush. “ _ Braska. _ That man was a Kirkwall Templar! He fought alongside the Champion at the Gallows.”

“Cullen Rutherford,” Leliana confirmed. “The Knight-Captain of the Kirkwall Circle, now Commander of the Inquisition’s armies. As it happens, you and he met before Kirkwall, at Kinloch Hold.”

Zevran let out a low whistle as the memory came back to him. “The young Templar the demons tortured and imprisoned.”

“Just so.” Leliana’s hands gripped the balcony. “I fear the events in Kirkwall confirmed our Commander’s worst beliefs about magic. And yet he seems most taken with the Inquisitor, mage though she be.”

Zevran nodded. “And the second?”

Leliana tilted her head at the far wall. A bald elf stood with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the proceedings through narrowed eyes. His gaze occasionally flickered to the others in the room—all of whom were giving him a wide, instinctive berth—but it was never more than a moment or two before his eyes returned to the Inquisitor.

“His name is Solas.” Leliana’s mouth tightened. “He is an apostate mage. He appeared as if from nowhere when the Breach first opened, and he saved the Inquisitor’s life when we were certain she would die.”

Zevran arched an eyebrow. “And you hate him.”

Leliana looked over at him with wide, startled eyes. Then she laughed a bit sheepishly. “There is no hiding from old friends, it seems.  _ Hate  _ is perhaps too strong a word. I simply do not trust him. I have not been able to prove that he has lied about anything he claims—but nor can I confirm who he is or where he came from.” She turned back to stare at Solas, her cowl concealing most of her face. “And that worries me.”

Zevran turned his eyes to Ciara Lavellan, who was asking questions of a shackled Orlesian noblewoman. The Inquisitor’s eyes flickered to the dark-skinned Ambassador at her side as she questioned the Orlesian; Zevran had the sense that Ciara Lavellan knew the prisoner, and wanted reassurance that her judgment was fair. “Where does her heart lie, do you think?”

“I do not know.” It was clearly a painful admission for Leliana. “I—have been at odds with the Inquisitor of late. There was an enemy I wished to dispatch, and she forbade me. We have not spoken alone since. I can hardly ask her about her crushes when she thinks me an unfeeling murderer.”

Zevran responded instinctively. “I am something of an expert on unfeeling murderers. You are far from that.”

“That is kind of you to say.” Leliana shifted her feet and raised her hands to her cowl, pulling it even further over her hair. “But my own feelings scarcely matter. The Inquisitor’s lover could wield profound influence over one of the most powerful women in Thedas. If she is to take one, I would prefer some advanced notice.”

“And that is where I come in? You wish me to puzzle out the identity of the man the Inquisitor loves?” Zevran could not keep his amusement from his voice. “I must admit this was not the task I envisioned when I made the journey to Skyhold.”

Leliana glanced sidelong at him with a spark in her light eyes. “Do you feel up to the challenge?”

Zevran bowed. “My dear Leliana. For you, anything.”


	3. Chapter 3

_ Denerim, 9:32 Dragon _

“I wish I could come with you.”

Zevran reached up and cupped Aedan’s cheek in his hand. A breeze floated through the harbor, bringing salt air and the smell of the tar that caked the hull of the nearest ship. Aedan’s most trusted bodyguards stood at the end of the pier, affording them some privacy, but he could still hear the bustle of the docks around them. “I would enjoy that as well,  _ mi amor.  _ But such a trifling matter as this hardly seems worth the King of Ferelden’s time.” 

“It’s not fucking  _ trifling.  _ They tried to kill you.” Aedan’s jaw twitched. “I’d welcome the opportunity to crack open a few Crow skulls. But with everything that happened at Vigil’s Keep …”

Zevran nodded. “It cannot be helped. You are needed here.”

_ Alistair could manage this,  _ a jealous voice within him whispered.  _ He doesn’t need to stay. He wants to. _

But that was unfair. A Darkspawn army had all but demolished Vigil’s Keep while Warden-Commander Alistair defended Amaranthine. Zevran himself felt that Alistair had handled things as well as anyone could, but he knew that guilt gnawed at Aedan. His lover would never say so aloud, but he believed that had he been the one in charge, he could have saved the Warden stronghold along with the city. Overseeing the Keep’s reconstruction was the only thing that might bring him some peace of mind.

_ Should I stay? _ Zevran wondered. No—the Crows had to be dealt with. Aedan might be focused on the fact that the Crows had tried to stab Zevran in his sleep, but Zevran was more concerned about who else they might have stabbed along with him. Namely the King slumbering on the pillow next to his.

And Maker, he was looking forward to some time away from Denerim. Lately Anora had been giving him looks that made him check his food for poisons and explosives.

“I prefer stabbing hearts to cracking skulls, but I will try to get in a few for you,” he told his lover. “Soon they will regret bothering us. The Crows and I can go back to ignoring one another.”

Aedan sighed and pulled him close, his strong arms tight around Zev’s shoulders. “Maker, I hope so.”

 

* * *

 

_ Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon _

When the Inquisitor called an end to the day’s hearings, Zevran followed Leliana down a narrow, spiraling staircase into the emptying Great Hall. Most of the assembled onlookers made their way to the doors once they knew no one else would be sentenced today. But Zevran noticed that Solas and Commander Rutherford were both edging closer, watching the Inquisitor to see if they might steal a moment.

There was no such shyness in Leliana’s movements, however. The Spymaster deftly wove her way through the departing throng, swimming upstream with the kind of confidence that made people instinctively shift their paths to make way for her. Before long, Zevran was climbing the steps to the Inquisitor’s throne, his old friend by his side.

With the backs of the assembly turned towards her, Ciara Lavellan was beginning to let her polish fade. As Zevran and Leliana approached, she reached her hands behind her head and began to collect her dark curls in a messy bun, shoving them away from her face and out of the way with practiced efficiency. She tugged at the neckline of her elegant gown as she stood.

“Creators, this bloody thing itches. Can I please …”

The Ambassador stepped towards her and murmured something in her ear. Inquisitor Lavellan blanched and turned her attention towards Zevran and Leliana.

“Leliana!” she said, her cheeks flushing. “My apologies. I did not realize you had brought …”

“There is no apology needed, Inquisitor,” Leliana said smoothly. “I merely wished to introduce an old friend. This is Zevran Arainai, who fought alongside the Hero of Ferelden during the Blight. Zevran, meet Inquisitor Ciara Lavellan.”

Zevran swept the deepest bow he could manage. When he rose, he saw that the Inquisitor was looking over to the Ambassador, her beautiful eyes anxious as she waited for her cue. The Dalish Inquisitor was not yet at ease with shemlen customs, it seemed. But the Ambassador merely smiled—which Zevran hoped was the signal that he was not to be feared.

Ciara’s eyes flickered back to him. “I welcome you to Skyhold, Zevran Arainai,” she said, her voice strong and sincere as she met his eyes. “What brings you here?”

Zevran could not help himself. “Why, the desire to see your beauty in person, of course,” he said with a wink. “And the desire to catch up with Leliana. I also wish to thank the Inquisition for helping me escape the Free Marches with my skin intact. I am rather fond of it.”

It had been the right tone to strike. The stiffness left Ciara’s expression, replaced with a more genuine smile—an almost playful one. “You are very welcome. Though it is mostly Josephine who deserves your thanks. It was her idea to sneak you out with Hercinia’s ambassador.”

“You are too kind, Inquisitor. But no thanks are necessary,” the Ambassador said in a rich Antivan accent, one pronounced enough to make Zevran instantly long for a bowl of fish chowder. “I could not abandon a fellow Antivan.” She flashed a lovely smile at Zevran; he found himself instinctively responding in kind.

“Ah, yes,” Leliana said fondly. “Zevran Arainai, may I present Ambassador Josephine Montilyet?” 

Zevran repeated his bow. He had heard Leliana mention Josephine a handful of times; his friend had always described her as a beloved younger sister, kind and a bit naive. He had not expected such a confident diplomat—nor had he expected her to be so lovely. Lady Montilyet wore a severe grey vest and golden puffed sleeves, the standard Antivan diplomat’s garments. But even their starched, unflattering formality could not hide the appealing curve of her mouth or the warmth in her eyes.

“My dear Ambassador,” Zevran said in Antivan. “It is always pleasant to meet a fellow countrywoman—though I fear our homeland is sadly diminished after losing such a beautiful woman from its shores.”

The Ambassador tilted her head and laughed, pointing her pen towards him in a teasing manner. “I see Leliana exaggerated nothing about you,” she said wryly before switching back to Ferelden. “Welcome to Skyhold, Messere. Any friend of Leliana’s is most welcome here.”

“The Crows!” Inquisitor Lavellan blurted.

A brief, awkward silence fell over the group. The Inquisitor blushed slightly. “I mean to say—Serrah Arainai, you used to be a member of the Antivan Crows, did you not?”

Zevran felt the muscles in his back and shoulders tense. The powerful men and women in Aedan’s political circles had uncovered his background quickly; in his experience, such comments were usually the prelude to a cutting remark or an outright threat. But he tried not to show his apprehension. “I did, my Lady.”

Ciara’s face lit with a relieved smile. “Good. The House of Repose managed to get a man into the Ambassador’s office a few weeks ago. Would you be willing to advise me on security?”

At her side, the Ambassador flinched. “My dear Inquisitor, you solved the matter most efficiently. I am sure this will trouble you no further.”

“It’s no trouble, Josie,” the Inquisitor said firmly. 

“I assure you, Inquisitor, we’ve taken every precaution against further invasions,” Commander Rutherford said. He eyed Zevran with some suspicion.

“We’ve taken military precautions, yes,” the Inquisitor agreed. “And I thank you for them, Commander. But Zevran may spot things we’ve missed. I never want assassins threatening my people again.”

She turned to Zevran, her eyes bright and hopeful. “Serrah? Would you be willing to walk the battlements with me and give me your initial assessment?” She tugged at her neckline again. “After I change, that is.”

Zevran bowed low. “It would be my pleasure to assist you, Inquisitor Lavellan.”


	4. Chapter 4

_Kirkwall, 9:37 Dragon_

“So,” Isabela murmured, lounging against the bed and stretching like a pleased cat, her body naked and scarred and gorgeous in the candlelight. “Was that better than killing a Guildmaster?”

Zevran had been watching the Kirkwall rooftops for signs of leftover Crows, but since they seemed empty, he turned to grin at her. “Infinitely, my dear Isabela. Few things compare to sharing your bed. But you know that.” That bed was rather rumpled at the moment, its tangled sheets a witness to some very creative positions.

“Few things? I would have said nothing. I think you hurt my feelings.” With a playful pout, Isabela sat up and reached for a bottle of what she swore was the Hanged Man’s best whiskey. Zevran waved aside the bottle when she held it in his direction.

“I will decline. I think the Champion had it right. They do seem to flavor the drinks here with rat droppings.”

Isabela snorted. “He used to be more fun.” She pushed her hair back from her face with one hand and went to stand by Zevran at the window, her elbows settling onto the high wooden windowsill.

“I will take your word for it.” It was hard for Zevran to imagine the stone-faced Champion as “fun.”

“He did!” Isabela protested. There was a little wobble to her voice, an echo of a loss. “Best treasure-hunting partner I ever had. Some of the best sex, too.”

Zevran blinked, coping with this new knowledge. He would never have guessed that Isabela and the Champion had been friendly in the past. Frankly, it surprised him that the Champion had been friendly with anyone. The Garrett Hawke he’d met was full of sharp, angry words, his dark eyes hard and his temper quick to flare. But he had gleaned something of the Champion’s history from comments and asides among Isabela’s friends. The man had lost his entire family one by one to illness and Darkspawn and blood magic. Small wonder he was angry at the world. Aedan had been much the same way in the early days of the Blight.

Isabela’s eyes dropped to the bottle. She pulled out its cork with an wrench, her left hand twisting it free with more force than was strictly necessary. “I fucked it all up. Of course.” She tossed back a shot of whiskey as she stared out at the cloudless night sky. “I tried to come back and make it right,” she continued after she swallowed. “But Hawke’s not a forgiving sort. At least he didn’t give me to the Arishok. I think he was tempted, though.”

She shook her head as if she could dislodge the feelings from her mind. “But enough about that. How’s your Hero? I have to tell you, the memories of that afternoon on my ship have kept me warm through some _very_ cold nights.” Her eyes sparkled wickedly. “The two of you are quite a team.”

Under normal circumstances Zevran would have said something dirty and avoided the topic. But somehow Isabela’s unexpected vulnerability drew out words he hadn’t known were there.

“We are. When we can manage to be in the same city for more than a week.”

Isabela raised her eyebrows. “I did wonder why you were spending so much time chasing down Crows on your own. Doesn’t His Royal Majesty have big armies to send after people who threaten his beloved?”

Zevran chuckled. “I fear the bannorn would not approve. Nor would his wife. Besides, I enjoy it. Being a King is rather time-consuming, so Aedan does not mind my little hobby. Indeed, he wishes me luck whenever I find a new Guildmaster to target.”

_But he could have asked me to let this one go. He could have asked me to stay with him._

A heaviness settled into Zevran’s chest as he realized his unspoken wish. “Now that I have succeeded, I will see him soon enough,” he said, as much for his own benefit as for Isabela’s.

“That’s good.” Her red lips curved in a wicked smile. “I’ll bet the reunion sex is amazing. Can I come with you and join in?”

Zev tilted his head back and laughed, his whole body shaking with mirth. “Never change, Isabela. I beg you.”

She winked at him and took another slug from the bottle of whiskey. “Not planning on it.”

 

* * *

 

_Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon_

Inquisitor Lavellan met Zevran at the foot of the stairs to her chambers, wearing an outfit that made Zevran blink twice at its plainness. After his first meeting with the Inquisitor he’d expected Dalish garb, or perhaps an elegant set of robes that conveyed her status with the Inquisition’s colors and sigil. Instead she wore leather leggings, a high-necked jacket, and a long, plain riding coat. Her hair was collected into a braid over one shoulder and she carried a staff in one hand. From a distance, she looked like … well, like almost any other Inquisition recruit.

Zevran approved. He liked people who knew how to hide in plain sight.

“So, Inquisitor,” he said smoothly as she approached. “Shall we tour your battlements in search of weak points?”

She flashed him a smile—not the sweet, serene curve of the mouth she’d employed on her throne, but a crooked grin that made her eyes sparkle. “Call me Ciara. And yes, please. If any more House of Repose assholes try to get inside Skyhold, I want them to tear their hair out and weep in frustration before one of our archers picks them off.”

Zevran noticed several things about Ciara Lavellan as they began their walk around Skyhold. First, she fidgeted. Her slender fingers were always rubbing an itch at her forehead, or playing with a loose curl, or running themselves over a seam at her shoulder.

Second, she seemed to either talk a mile a minute, blurting out the first things that came into her head, or be utterly silent and watchful. There was little in-between.

Third, Zevran sensed that she was far more at ease and at home out of her Inquisitor’s garb. He quickly intuited that the polished, serene woman he’d seen passing judgment in Skyhold’s great hall was a construct, a mask Inquisitor Lavellan wore when the occasion required it.

He’d seen the same thing with Aedan long ago. Faced with werewolves or blood mages or even that monster Rendon Howe, he’d been a cold, confident warrior, a large man with a thousand-yard stare that promised all sorts of pain to those who crossed him. In private, he’d been a man who bit his thumbnail and ran his hands through his hair when he was nervous, and who sometimes couldn’t sleep after a difficult decision.

He’d crafted a new mask after the Blight, a variation on the previous one but with more arrogance and authority behind it. It only took a single word from Aidan’s mouth to remind those around him that he was a Cousland and King Consort and the Hero of Ferelden, someone to be respected and usually obeyed without question. Over time, Zevran knew, Aedan had found his public mask harder and harder to put aside.

He wondered if it would eventually be the same for the energetic, fresh-faced young woman walking at his side. He rather hoped not. As impressive as the Inquisitor had been, Zevran found that he liked Ciara a great deal more.

“The greatest danger, of course, will come from those who walk through your front gate,” he told the Inquisitor as they walked along a high battlement. “You cannot hope to know every face or name in a fortress of Skyhold’s size. Stationing guards near your key people—even those who can defend themselves—will be essential. Though I suspect you already know that, given the soldiers I spotted in the audience chamber.”

Ciara nodded. “Anyone who starts trouble will have a fight on their hands. But I want your help spotting ways people could go around our guards and gain access to places where they’re not supposed to be. Windows in particular. I think that’s how the assassin from the House of Repose got in.”

Well, that was certainly an area where he had some experience. “There,” Zevran said, pausing and pointing. “Those rough stones along that wall. They must be dealt with. A climber could gain a hold there.”

“Someone could really scale those?” she asked, leaning dangerously far out to see where he was pointing.

Zevran decided to do her the courtesy of not asking about her balance. “They could. It would be a skilled someone, but I would not leave them as they are. Leftover kitchen grease should do the trick, if you are not overly concerned with the smell.”

“I’m more concerned with assassins attacking my people,” Ciara said firmly as she straightened her posture. Then her lovely face arranged itself in a scowl. “As, for example, they seem to be doing _right bloody now._ ”

A furious roar split the Skyhold air. Zevran cast his eyes down the battlements to its source. An enormous Qunari warrior with a patched eye was drawing a two-handed sword and bracing himself for an onslaught—two humans in Inquisition garb charging straight for him, knives in hand.

Ciara flew forward, magic at the ready. Zevran drew his knives and followed, but the fight was over before it truly began. The warrior dispatched the pair with ease; though he took a throwing knife to the shoulder, he quickly used it to fell the first assassin. The second man was tossed from the battlements seconds before Ciara and Zevran reached the scene.

“Creators!” the Inquisitor gasped, staring at the blood running from the man’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

The man snorted. “It’s nothing, boss. Guess I wasn’t even worth sending professionals after.”

Ciara’s mouth dropped comically open. “Nothing? _Nothing?_ Another bloody group of assassins attacks someone in broad daylight, _inside Skyhold itself,_ and you’re telling me it’s _nothing_?!” A stream of elven curse words followed as the Inquisitor began pacing up and down the battlements, gesturing wildly at the air.

“Well, now they’ve done it. She’s only like this when she’s really pissed,” the Qunari warrior muttered. “I’m The Iron Bull, by the way.”

“Zevran Arainai. A pleasure,” Zev replied with a little bow of his head.

“I know. I used to be with the Ben-Hassrath. We try to keep an eye on the people close to royalty.” The warrior’s single eye crinkled up at the side. “Since I’m not Ben-Hassrath anymore, and they just tried to kill me, I figured I’d give you a heads up.”

“Ah. I thank you,” Zevran said, though he was not surprised to hear it. It was one of the odder aspects of his relationship with Aedan, knowing that every spy organization in Thedas had a file of some sort with his name on it. “I suppose I cannot blame them. I am quite interesting.”

Ciara seemed to have exhausted her supply of curse words. With a final spluttering sound, she spun around to face them and switched back to Ferelden. “Creators. We can’t even go a week without an assassination attempt!”

“They weren’t serious,” the Qunari said nonchalantly. “Two guys with blades against me? That’s not a hit, that’s a formality.”

Having watched the exchange, Zevran had to agree. “Though it will be worth investigating how they acquired those uniforms,” he interjected. “Better security for your military equipment will likely be in order. Though I would expect their next attempt will employ a different strategy.”

“It won’t happen again. The Ben-Hassrath just wanted to make it clear that I’m Tal-Vashoth now.” The man gritted his massive jaw. “Tal-Va- _fucking_ -shoth.”

Zevran felt himself wince in sympathy. Though he had never entirely wrapped his head around the Qun, he knew exactly what it was like to realize that your former comrades-at-arms were now your most dangerous enemies.

Ciara shook her head. “They don’t get to say who you are,” she said firmly. “You’re The Iron Bull, you’re with the Inquisition, and the next time those bastards get the bright idea to come after you, I’ll personally put their heads on pikes.” She paused. “Well. Not really. That’s a bit gross. But they _will_ regret it.”

The warrior smiled down at the elven woman and shook his head. “I don’t doubt it, boss. And for what it’s worth—whatever I miss, whatever I regret, this is where I want to be. Whenever you need an ass kicked, The Iron Bull is with you.” His tone was surprisingly sentimental, Zevran thought, given the rather colorful promise.

“Good.” Ciara pulled a handkerchief from somewhere in her jacket and handed it to him. “Now go get that thing stitched up before Dorian sees it.”

The Iron Bull winced a bit as he pressed the cloth to his shoulder. “Good call. Although it’s kind of fun watching him worry about me.” His lone eye twinkled.

“ _Bull_ ,” the Inquisitor said warningly.

“All right, all right,” the warrior said, waving a huge hand in surrender. “I’ll go tell Red what happened. Then, stitches.”

“I see you did not exaggerate your assasination problem,” Zevran told the Inquisitor wryly as Bull walked away.

Ciara laid a hand to her forehead. “Creators. Who _else_ in this fortress has teams of murderers after them?”

“You should not take it personally. Indeed, you might consider it a form of flattery. Being targeted for assassination is the result of most things worth doing.”

The Inquisitor did not look reassured. Zevran was about to say more—until he spotted a slender figure making its way across the battlements towards them.

It was none other than Solas. The elf walked towards them on silent feet, his expression calm but concerned. An odd necklace swayed against his chest; as he drew closer, Zevran realized it was some sort of jawbone. _Perhaps not the most fashion-forward accessory._

“Inquisitor.” The elf’s voice was strangely tentative. “I heard the sounds of battle, but it seems I am too late to be of assistance.”

Ciara stiffened. It was subtle, just a little set of the shoulders and a shifting of the feet, but it was there. “Solas. Yes, it’s been taken care of. I didn’t know you’d returned.”

Solas flinched. “I have. I … we should speak, perhaps.” His eyes flickered over to Zevran, full of questions about a man permitted alone in the Inquisitor’s company.

Ciara caught the look. “May I introduce you to Zevran Arainai, a friend of Leliana’s? Zevran, this is Solas, the man who saved my life after I acquired the mark.”

 _A generous description, but hardly a passionate one,_ Zevran thought, filing the comment away for later analysis as he bowed to Solas. “Well met.”

Solas did not bow in return, but merely looked at him with quiet, measuring eyes. “A pleasure,” he said—perfectly politely, though the impatient way he looked over to Ciara betrayed him. _He wishes me elsewhere._

Ciara caught the look too. “I apologize, Zevran, but I think Solas and I should speak as soon as possible. Perhaps we could resume our inspection later?”

“Of course, my lady Inquisitor,” Zevran said easily. “I am at your service.”

With that, he nodded to Solas and turned to walk away.

Not until they were several paces behind him did Zevran risk a backward glance. Their expressions were serious, their voices low. Solas seemed to be explaining something—the reasons for his absence, perhaps, or where he had been. Ciara was nodding, her expression forgiving, but there was none of the comfortable intimacy he’d seen between her and The Iron Bull.

It occurred to Zevran that he was once more looking not at Ciara, but at the Inquisitor. She wore her mask with this man. And she had done the same, he realized, with Cullen Rutherford when they spoke in the great hall.

_Is she skilled at concealing her heart? Or simply uninterested in them both?_


	5. Chapter 5

_A hunting lodge outside of Denerim, 9:41 Dragon_

Zevran glanced up at Aedan, watching him over the top of the book he was pretending to read. The King Consort of Ferelden was reclining in an overstuffed chair near the roaring fire, his own head buried in a stack of documents. He did not seem to notice that Zev was looking at him; his concentration was absolute, and the mounting frustration on his face made it clear that he didn’t like what he was reading.

They had been reading like this, side by side, for nearly two hours now. Once Zevran would have called this sort of quiet a comfortable silence—but it did not feel comfortable today. This was the first opportunity they’d had to be truly alone together in months, but ever since they arrived yesterday, every conversation had been stilted and strange.

It felt as if they had little to say to one another any more.

“Do you need to go back?” The words fell from Zevran’s lips before he’d really thought about them.

Aedan read another half page before the words seemed to register with him. “I … what?” His hazel eyes met Zev’s, blinking in astonishment.

“I know your expressions well, my Warden,” Zev said with a shrug. “Whatever you are reading concerns you. Will you be ending our weekend early?”

Slowly, Aedan leaned back in his chair. His eyes grew wide and round. “Is … is that what you want?”

“Of course not,” Zev snapped, exasperated. “But it is what I have come to expect.”

Aedan’s mouth tightened. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Only that your duties often come before other things. As, I suppose, they must.” Zevran added those last words begrudgingly, out of a sense of fairness, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to say them.

“I have a bloody country to run, Zev!” Aedan’s voice was rising, his face tense with frustration. “And if by ‘other things’ you mean ‘our relationship,’ you’re the one who can’t stay in Denerim for five minutes without taking off after some Guildmaster who once looked at you funny!”

Now _that_ was a surprise. Aedan had never once hinted that he disliked Zevran’s travels. Once, Zevran would have been thrilled to know it—but right now he was merely irritated. “Have you any idea what it is like, idling away my time in that mouldering palace, answering rude questions from your courtiers as I wait for the remaining scraps of your time? I am not a _pet,_ Aedan. Though most of your bannorn treat me as one.”

“Why the fuck do you care what they think?” Aedan snarled.

“I care what _you_ think.” Zevran’s voice crackled with longing. Even now, after so many years with this man, he hated revealing himself that way. But the truth would no longer be denied. “And with every passing year, I fear you are more and more theirs, and less and less mine.”

Those words hung in the air for a very long time.

Finally, Aedan sighed and put the papers aside. “Let’s not do this, Zev. We hardly ever get time together. I’ll put the petitions away, you put your book down, and we’ll … do something. Go hunting, like we used to during the Blight.” He shook his head with a rueful smile. “Maker. When did the Blight become the ‘good old days?’”

It should have been an easy way to move on. But Zev could feel that they were balancing on the edge of a knife—that if they did not have the courage to have this discussion now, they might never have it, and that not having it would tear them apart in the end.

But if he forced the conversation, it might tear them apart today.

So he smiled. “I spotted some fine bows among the supplies. Let us try our luck, shall we?”

They both tried for the rest of that weekend. Aedan spoke only a little of his life at court; Zevran did not gloat over the information that would lead him to his next target. But this time, when they parted, there was no firm plan to meet again—only vague promises on both ends of letters and future visits.

There were letters exchanged, but the times in between them grew longer and longer; the letters themselves grew shorter and shorter, and neither of them proposed a time or place to see each other again.

On the day the Conclave exploded, Zevran’s first thought was for Aedan.

His second was that he had not seen his lover for nearly a year.

 

* * *

 

_Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon_

At Leliana’s urging, Zevran helped himself to the evening meal the Inquisition put out for its people—simple fare but nutritious, noticeably better than most of the army meals Zevran had been subjected to over the years. With his stomach filled, he sought a bath. The one that was drawn for him was marvelously hot, just on the verge of scalding. He would have happily luxuriated in it until it turned lukewarm if not for the way the water changed color when he scrubbed away the weeks of travel dust.

As he washed, he wondered how best to approach his strange task for Leliana. Zevran prided himself on his ability to read people, but he had detected no partiality for either suitor in Ciara’s words or actions. Indeed, she had treated both men with a careful formality—not cold, but not warm either.

 _But that does not rule them out._ Perhaps she was merely nervous, unsure if her feelings were returned.

 _Perhaps I should ask The Iron Bull._ The former Ben-Hassrath struck Zevran as the kind of man who noticed things, and he was clearly friendly with the young elf. _Though he may not say anything._ He suspected The Iron Bull would not divulge secrets easily, particularly when it might affect someone he respected.

He was pulling a clean shirt over his head, mulling his next move, when a knock came at the door.

“One moment, my dear spymaster,” he called.

“Zevran?”

He blinked at the voice. It was not Leliana’s confident Orlesian accent, but the Inquisitor’s gentle alto.

“My apologies, Inquisitor—Ciara,” he said, trying to conceal his surprise. _Is she truly so anxious about these security measures?_ The sun would set soon, and he had assumed she would leave their task until the morrow. 

He opened the door and bowed his head. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Alas, I think we may soon lose the light, if you were hoping to resume our assessment.”

Ciara smiled nervously at him. She was still wearing her casual garb, and one hand was toying with the end of her braid. The other hand clutched a book against her chest.

“I—no. I’d like to talk more about security tomorrow, but this—it’s something else. I need help with something private. If you don’t mind?” she said shyly, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

His curiosity more than a little piqued, Zevran stepped back to admit her into the room.

“I’ve been trying to get up the courage to ask this,” Ciara blurted, closing the door behind her. Without further ceremony, she shoved the book in his direction.

Zevran took the little volume in his hands with a raised eyebrow and opened the cover. “Antivan poetry! You have splendid taste in reading material. I did not realize you spoke my native tongue.”

“I don’t,” she admitted—just as Zevran turned to the first page and realized what kind of poetry it was. “But I wanted—I mean, I thought—could you translate some for me? I’m trying to write a letter to someone and I thought she would like poetry, and maybe it’s better if it’s in her language, and …” Her breath caught and she blushed. “I just want to get this right. I was hoping you could help.”

It took Zevran a moment to catch up with all of the implications in those words. _She wants me to translate Antivan? The Commander isn’t Antivan. Is Solas? Surely—no. Ciara said_ _she_ _._

Zevran’s jaw dropped. A ridiculously pleased smile spread over his face as he lowered the book. “You wish to court the Ambassador?”

“She’s _incredible,_ ” Ciara breathed, her eyes alight. Her next words flowed out in a rush; she had clearly been holding them in for some time. “She’s so smart and kind and beautiful. When I’m with her I’m either utterly absorbed in what she’s saying, or too distracted to hear a word because I’m thinking about kissing her.” The smile faded as uncertainty entered her expression. “But I don’t know if she feels the same way. We’ve flirted a bit, and she’s lovely to me, but she’s lovely to everyone. And I don’t want her to say yes because I’m the Inquisitor or feel as if I’ve put her on the spot. So I thought maybe a letter would be good. A romantic one. With Antivan poetry.”

_And Leliana never saw it coming. How wonderfully astonishing._

“I fear this may not be the volume to aid with such a task,” Zevran told her gently. “It is rather explicit erotic poetry.”

“Oh.” Ciara blinked. “Well, maybe it will become relevant later. If I’m lucky.”

“I am afraid it is erotic poetry about two men.” Zevran flipped through a few of the pages. “Most of the suggestions involve anatomical parts that neither you nor Lady Montilyet possess.”

“Drat,” the pretty elf sighed. “And I thought I was so lucky, finding a volume of Antivan poetry in that cave.”

“I would be happy to help you with a letter, if you would like,” Zevran offered, setting the book aside. “But in my experience, even the best poetry is a poor substitute for your own words.” Aedan still teased him about the verse he had recited in the earliest phases of their courtship. “What do you wish to tell her?”

“‘Josephine Montilyet, I adore you and I want to bring you flowers every day and dance with you under the stars?’” Ciara suggested, a little twinkle in her eye. “And then hopefully she’ll read the letter, come find me, say ‘I adore you too, Ciara Lavellan’ and kiss me senseless. Not that I’ve thought about this.”

“That sounds like a splendid love letter.” Zevran tapped a finger against his mouth. “Though it would be better in Antivan, I agree. Shall I help you with the translation?”

The Inquisitor’s smile could have lit all of Skyhold. “Please.”


	6. Chapter 6

_Skyhold, 9:42 Dragon_

It took several drafts before Ciara was satisfied with her letter to Josephine. Then she spent some time debating whether she ought to deliver it right away, or wait until the morning. Right away won out. At Ciara’s direction, Zevran added a postscript informing Josephine that Ciara would wait at a particular spot on the battlements if she wished to make any reply. He assumed his part in this little romance was done—but to his surprise, he found himself accompanying Ciara for moral support, first as she left the letter for Josephine, and then as she made her way to the promised spot high on Skyhold’s wall.

“I should have worn something else. Should I have worn something else?” Ciara twisted the end of her braid around one finger and looked down at her garb with a scowl. “Josie’s so elegant. Should I get that thing I have to wear when I’m in the Great Hall?”

Zevran bit back a smile. “I would not worry,” he assured her. “I cannot imagine that Lady Montilyet’s response will change based on your clothing.”

Ciara paced back and forth, her eyes never leaving the tower door. “She must have seen the letter by now. Creators, this was a mistake. She’s probably taking a moment to compose the perfect rejection. How could I have been so foolish …”

Zevran cleared his throat politely. “Not to interrupt you, Inquisitor. But I believe that I see Lady Montilyet hurrying across the courtyard.”

It was hard to tell from this height. But Zevran thought he saw the Ambassador clutching a letter to her chest.

Ciara took a deep breath. “Creators preserve me. Thank you, Zevran, for everything. I suppose it’s up to me now.”

“I wish you luck in love, my lady Inquisitor.” Zevran swept her his most elaborate bow. “It has been my privilege to aid you.”

He and Josephine passed one another on the stairs as he descended. He did not think the Ambassador even noticed him; she was racing up the steps on her toes, her cheeks flushed pink and her lips parted in astonishment.

He allowed himself one look up at the battlements as he crossed the courtyard, unable to leave the scene without at least a guess at Josephine’s reply. What he saw left no doubt as to her answer. Josephine was kissing Ciara tenderly, her hands cupping Ciara’s jaw, as Ciara rested her hands in the curve of Josephine’s waist and kissed her back. Stars twinkled in the darkening sky above them, and Zevran had the fanciful thought that even the heavens approved.

*

“I have an unexpected solution to your puzzle.” Zevran could not conceal his smug grin as he settled in the seat across from Leliana’s, a glass of her best Orlesian red in one hand. “Ciara is interested in neither Solas nor your Commander.”

Leliana let out a relieved breath. “I must say, that is the answer I was hoping for. A romantic entanglement for the Inquisitor would be …”

“She is, however, most enamored of your Ambassador,” Zevran interrupted nonchalantly.

In all the years he had known her, Zevran had never seen Leliana shocked. But when her jaw dropped and her mouth rounded, he knew he was seeing it now.

“Of—of _Josie_? I—what? She cares for Josie? How can that be? She’s never shown the slightest interest ...” Leliana’s expression darkened, suspicion rising in her eyes. “What does the Inquisitor intend with her?”

“To send her poetry, I believe,” Zevran said lightly. “And take her dancing, and bring her flowers, and talk at great lengths about the merits of her hair and eyes and lips. She is smitten. There is no other word for it. It is quite adorable.”

Leliana still looked horrified. He arched an eyebrow, puzzled. “Does this truly distress you? It cannot be the first time someone has noticed your friend.”

The spymaster shook her head. “Josie is—she is splendid at what she does. Sharp and careful and five steps ahead of anyone else. But when it comes to love she is almost an innocent.” She bit her lower lip, worry clear on her face. “Such a heart could be easily broken by a careless person.”

“You think the Inquisitor careless?” Zevran asked, surprised.

“No,” Leliana admitted with a sigh. “But I do think—” She stopped suddenly, her lips parted, the next phrase frozen on her tongue.

After a deliberate pause, she resumed, her words slow and carefully chosen. “The Inquisitor carries a heavy burden. She will never entirely belong to herself. Or to the person who loves her. I—it seems a hard fate, in a way, to love a person on whom so much must depend.”

Her eyes met Zevran’s. There was no pity in her expression, but it was clear that the words were not only about Josie.

Zevran took a sip of his wine—a slow one, one that gave him time to consider what he ought to say in return. “I fear it may be too late to stop them,” he admitted. “I may have helped the Inquisitor pen a love letter in Antivan. Last I saw them they were kissing atop the battlements with a very romantic starlit sky in the background.”

Leliana simply stared at him for a moment. Finally, somewhat reluctantly, she laughed. “I had no idea I was inviting a matchmaker to Skyhold. Your status as a fearsome assassin will be in some danger if word gets out.”

Zevran could not resist a cheeky wink. “Splendid. A benign reputation would make me even more dangerous.”

They sat in a companionable silence for a while, drinking their wine and watching Leliana’s ravens leap about their perches. After a long pause, something compelled Zevran to speak once more. “If your Josie loves Ciara, it is true that she will not have an easy path before her,” he said, his voice far more serious than usual. “She may have to content herself with a smaller piece of the Inquisitor’s life than she would like.”

“Is happiness possible under such circumstances?” Leliana asked softly, tilting her head.

“Will Josie and Ciara meet the same fate as Aedan and I, you mean?” Zevran asked, wryly but with no bitterness. He twisted the wine glass between his fingers, considering the question.

“I cannot say. It will depend, I think, on how well they talk to one another. Whether they can ask one another for what they truly want.” He sighed. “That, in the end, was where I failed—and where I suspect Aedan struggled as well. There were too many years of not asking, for fear that the answer would be _no._ ”

“What would you have asked for?”

“For him to take less onto his shoulders. To trust more in Anora and Alistair, to hire other capable people to aid him. To spend more time away from court, where we could move freely and with less scrutiny.” Finally saying that out loud twisted something in Zevran’s chest. It had seemed such an impossible thing to ask for—but now that he heard the words, perhaps it had not been impossible at all.

He smiled ruefully. “And meanwhile, I put miles and years between us, carrying out my plans for the Crows. I thought Aedan did not mind. In truth, I thought he was relieved to have me gone.”

Leliana watched him thoughtfully. “I doubt that was how he felt.”

Zevran shook his head. “As do I, now.”

They sipped their wine in silence once more.

“You mentioned you’d had a letter from Aedan,” Zevran said abruptly. “May I see it?”

 

* * *

 

_A clearing in the woods, somewhere in Thedas_

_Blast it all to blighted hell._

Aedan threw a twig onto the fire with a wrench of his shoulder. The little bit of wood didn’t land with the kind of _crash_ he was craving, but the fire did flare a bit, which was satisfying. Particularly because this little clearing in the woods was dark, and cold, and somewhat damp. Any warmth was welcome.

_Months of searching. And what do I have to show for it?_

_Nothing._

_Maker’s fucking balls, I’m an idiot._ Wardens had faced the Calling for generations. He couldn’t be the first person who had wanted to stop it. But oh no, the mighty Hero of Ferelden had to try it himself. He’d believed so deeply that it would be different for him—that he alone could succeed where everyone else had failed.

_Arrogant, delusional idiot._

_Maybe if Alistair hadn’t killed the Architect_ … but no. Aedan stopped that thought before it could go anywhere. There was no point in regretting what was already done. For years he had wondered how he would have handled things in his friend’s place. But the truth was that Alistair was a damned good Warden-Commander, and things probably wouldn’t have turned out much differently if Aedan had been in charge. Just as Ferelden was doing perfectly well under Anora’s guidance during Aedan’s odd sabbatical.

_In the end, I’m not as necessary as I thought._

He reached up and scrubbed a hand across his beard, feeling the thin patches growing around his jaw. Even after more than a month of not shaving, he didn’t have anything like a real beard.

Zev had always teased him about that.

In the old days, the Blight days, Zev had taken on the task of shaving Aedan’s face, ridding him of the messy scruff with a few scrapes of his sharpest blade. Now that task was delegated to one of half a dozen men who groomed the King for public appearances. But if he closed his eyes and concentrated, Aedan could almost feel Zev’s clever fingers against his cheeks, his breath warm against his ear.

Aedan hadn’t cried since the night Rendon Howe murdered his family. And he didn’t cry now, not really. But a few tears leaked from the corner of his eye, stinging his skin as they made their way down his face.

There were plenty of people in Aedan’s life. But most of them were there because Aedan was a Cousland, or the King Consort, or the Hero of Ferelden, or a Grey Warden. Zev was the only one who just wanted Aedan, titles or no titles. _And I lost him._

He wasn’t even sure how it had happened, how they’d gone from not being able to keep their hands off each other to hardly being able to spend a weekend together. _Maybe if I’d gone with him to Antiva that first time. Or on one of the other trips. Any one of them …_

 _If_ he _hadn’t jumped on a boat every chance he got …_

_Fuck. If we’d just talked more. Really talked._

Aedan pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his forehead against them, as if he were once again ten years old and trying to hide from Cook after sneaking treats from the kitchen. Quietly, fervently, hopelessly, he wished the world away.

It was then that he heard the _snap_ of a twig under someone else’s foot.

Every muscle in Aedan’s body tensed as he waited for the next footfall. Another twig snapped, then another. Whoever was approaching him was either very clumsy about being heard … or wanted him to know they were coming.

Aedan reached for the hilt of his sword. “Who’s there?”

“A daring and deadly assassin, of course. Who else would dare approach the mighty Hero of Ferelden alone?”

_It can’t be._

Aedan raised his head as slowly as he could, half afraid to look at the figure approaching him. “Zev?”

Zevran’s familiar smile glinted in the firelight. But Aedan knew him well enough to see the hint of hesitation at the edges of that grin. That, more than anything, told Aedan he wasn’t hallucinating.

“How in Thedas did you find me?”

“I passed through Skyhold on my way south from the Free Marches, and Leliana shared your letter.” Zevran’s eyebrows drew down a bit, worried. “I … took a chance that you might be glad to see a friendly face.”

Aedan closed his eyes and chuckled, the sound rusty in his chest. “I am. I am glad to see you.” He sighed. “I shouldn’t be, though.”

Zevran stepped around the fire and settled next to him on the ground. “What do you mean?”

Aedan clutched his fingers into the dirt beneath him. “I’m hearing the Calling, Zev,” he said bluntly. “Not every day. Not the way Wardens do when it’s really close. Maybe it’s just whatever Corypheus is doing to the Orlesian Wardens. But it’s only a matter of time before it comes for me for real.” He shuddered. “You shouldn’t be here for that. You shouldn’t have to see me go mad from the Taint.”

Slowly, as if he had never done it before, Zevran raised his fingertips to Aedan’s cheek. He stroked them across Aedan’s face, tucking a messy cowlick of hair behind his ear. “Then we will search for a cure,” he said quietly. “If you would not mind the company, that is.”

“I’m not sure there is a cure.” He didn’t want to admit that. But he owed Zev the truth. “I’ve looked for months, Zev. No one knows what happened to the bits of metal that seemed to cure Fiona, and whatever the Architect knew, he’s dead now. I won’t ask you to come on a hopeless quest.”

Zev closed his eyes, stroking a warm hand down Aedan’s back. “Do you know, for years, I wished for the chance to take you away from court, to have you all to myself?” he said after a pause. “I will admit that these are not ideal circumstances. And if you truly wish to be alone … well, let no one say that Zevran stays where he is not wanted. But I would go with you gladly, if you would have me. For however long I can remain at your side.”

Aedan swallowed hard, trying to clear the lump in his throat. He barely knew how to respond to that—to Zev’s generosity, and loyalty, and love. So he blurted out the only words he could form.

“Stay. Please. I—I really want you here.”

_Only took me ten years to say that._

Zevran slid closer, resting his smaller frame against Aedan’s larger one, sliding an arm around his waist. Aedan wrapped his arm around Zevran’s shoulders and leaned his cheek against the top of Zev’s head. The warmth and closeness flowed through him like the first sip of strong whiskey, making him happy and relaxed and almost dizzy all at once. It felt, just for a moment, as if no time had passed at all since they first kissed in a campground much like this one.

They sat there just like that for a long time, watching the fire. There would be hard conversations later, Aedan knew—about them, and about the Calling, and about his probably-cursed quest for a cure. But for now, they let themselves simply be together.

 

* * *

 

_There are sanctuaries holding honey and salt._

_There are those who spill and spend._

_There are those who search and save._

_And love may be a quest with silence and content._

\--Carl Sandburg, “[Honey and Salt](https://stees.wordpress.com/2008/01/05/honey-salt-sandburg/)”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! The title of this little fic comes from my all-time favorite poem, Carl Sandburg's "Honey and Salt." If you've never read it before I highly recommend it!


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